Tuesday, September 26, 2017

What Red Cross Stats Don't Show

"Help is here!"

[Full disclosure: I am employed by the American Red Cross.]

I’m not a numbers person. Once you get past totals I can visualize
– 20 or 50 – I stop comprehending the scope of what large numbers are meant to
represent. So when I report that to date the American Red Cross has served over 3.8 million meals and snacks to victims of Hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Maria*,
all I know is that’s a lot. But I
can’t really process what that looks like. I don’t think any of us can.

Last week I spent 9 days in Ft Myers, supporting the Red Cross
relief efforts in Southwest Florida after Hurricane Irma made landfall on
September 10th. I spent a lot of time tracking down daily stats like “over 1
million overnight stays in shelters” and “provided more than 118,000 mental
health and health services”. I knew our 4 large-scale outdoor kitchens that we
run in partnership with the Southern Baptist Disaster Relief were turning out “tens
of thousands of meals a day”. I could see the enormous ovens cooking giant vats
of mashed potatoes and green beans, and I could certainly smell the tantalizing
scent of roast beef from the McGregor Baptist Church parking lot, where Kitchen
2 was set up. Kitchen 2 had the capacity to produce 20,000 meals per day. That
sounds like a lot! But even seeing the hundreds of red cambros, the insulated
boxes that keep the food hot for hours at a time, lined up on pallets in front
of multiple emergency response vehicles (ERVs), I still couldn’t visualize what
kind of number we were really talking about.

While in Ft Myers, I ran into another volunteer from my home region,
Oklahoma-Arkansas. Rick Umstead had deployed to Ft Myers as an ERV driver. His
job was to serve lunch and dinner to neighborhoods that were significantly
affected by Hurricane Irma. He and his partner Dave from Colorado would arrive
at Kitchen 2 around 8am and give ERV 2121 a good clean – mopping, disinfecting,
tidying and restocking supplies like plastic cutlery and “clamshells”, the
Styrofoam boxes used for handing out meals. Around 10am, the ERV drivers would
begin loading their trucks with cambros for lunch, enough food for about 500
meals per ERV. They would then drive off on their respective routes, whether to
neighborhoods identified as needing assistance or to one of the many Red Cross
shelters being managed in Southwest Florida. Rick and Dave would deliver their
500 meals and would not return to the kitchen until their cambros were empty.

By the time Rick and Dave returned from the lunch run, usually
around 3-3:30pm, it was time to unload the empty cambros and reload the truck
for dinner. By 4 or so they’d be back on their way again, serving another 500
meals, often not returning until 10 at night. Upon return, they unloaded the
empty cambros again, cleared out the ERV, and headed off to bed, knowing the
next day they’d be back at the kitchen at 8am, ready to do the same thing all
over again. Kitchen 2 had at least 6 or more ERVs in operation every day, with
at least two volunteers per vehicle. Rick and Dave, like many other ERV
drivers, had committed to spending two weeks in Ft Myers doing this work. Some
volunteers committed more.

To me, 500 meals twice a day per ERV sounded like a lot, but how
many meals is that really? I got to find out on Thursday, when I asked them if
I could join them for their dinner routes. “If you ride with us, we’re putting
you to work!” they said. And that’s exactly what I intended to do!

I rode in the back of the ERV in the seat by the serving window.
(It has a seatbelt, in case you’re wondering.) We drove about half an hour away
into a neighborhood in Lehigh, where we began our slow progression through the
neighborhoods, beeping the horn and calling out over the loudspeaker, “Red
Cross, food and water! ¡Comida y agua!” I put on a
pair of clean plastic food handling gloves to serve the clamshells and bottles
of water out the window, while Rick filled each compartment with food and
handed the clamshell to me to finish and close. After a short while, we got a
system going – he’d spoon out the main meal items, pass the clamshell to me,
and I’d add the condiment packets, cutlery packets and dessert, then pass out
through the window to families who came out of their homes – most still without
power and many damaged by fallen trees and hurricane-force wind – to get a
free, hot meal and a cold(ish) bottle of water.

I was struck by the various reactions of the people we
served. Some were hesitant to accept a free meal, as if not sure it was really
free. A few people shared their stories with me, and a few even cried as they
thanked us. Many were modest and only requested meals for their children, not
themselves. Some thought they had to pay us. Many families only spoke Spanish
in this neighborhood (while in other neighborhoods, there would have been many
Creole speakers too), so I learned to say things like “¿Cuántos?” (“How many”?), “Es gratis” (“It’s free”) and “Tenemos mucha comida” (“We have lots of food”)
to explain that there was plenty for the adults in the household too. I quickly
learned to trust my instincts and insist sometimes on handing out the extra meals
and waters to those who would rather go without than appear greedy. Some felt
they needed to explain why they were needing more meals than it appeared they should.
I told them we’d give them whatever they needed. All were grateful.

After handing out what felt like at least a hundred meals, I
looked at the clock. We’d only been at it for an hour. There were still five
cambros of food left, and we were nowhere near done. We had only hit less than
half the neighborhood, and it wasn’t the only neighborhood on our route. I
continued to add the condiments, cutlery and desserts to clamshells and hand
them out the window for another hour or so. Then we swapped jobs, and I began
ladling out the food. Trying to get the proportions right ended up more an art
than a science. I wanted to make sure we had enough to complete all 500 meals
but not be so conservative that the meals were skimpy and we’d end up with
anything left over. I filled clamshell after clamshell, each time trying to get
it just right. It was tiring work!

Though it was getting dark, we didn’t want to leave any
neighborhood until we were sure everyone had been served. We ended up finishing
our routes a little earlier than Dave and Rick had the previous nights; having
an extra pair of hands seemed to help move the process along a little faster.
We finally returned to Kitchen 2 a little before 9pm to unload the empty
cambros, clean the serving utensils, through away the trash and get ERV 2121
ready to do the same thing again the next morning.

500 meals suddenly had real meaning to me. It’s a lot. And that was only dinner; Dave and
Rick had already served another 500 lunches only hours before I joined them and
had been at this already for seven days straight. Their next day was to be
their first day off since arriving in Ft Myers.

Like so much in disaster relief, nothing is as simple as it
appears from the outside. “Tens of thousands of meals a day” is a lot, but what
gets lost in those grandiose numbers is the individuality of where each of
those meals went. Did seven meals go to a family of migrant workers in Bonita
Springs who had been without air conditioning or refrigeration for almost two
weeks? Did four meals go to a single mother and her three small children
sleeping in a shelter in Immokalee after their home flooded? Did one meal go to
the lady who was scheduled for a lung bypass surgery just days after the
hurricane hit and now had no power in her home? Did three meals go to three
children while the parents watched hungrily on, afraid to ask for the extra two
meals to avoid taking too much?

And what about the volunteers? When we say there are more
than 2,380 volunteers responding right now to Hurricanes Irma and Maria, we
lose the individuality of each volunteer and what they gave up to be there.
Some are retired and have left their spouses, grandchildren and perhaps ailing
parents for two weeks. Some requested PTO from their employers to spend their
vacation time volunteering. Some, like me, left small children at home with the
other parent or with another caregiver to spend time serving in the disaster
zone. One man I met runs his own business and turns down contracts during
hurricane season so he can spend most of the late summer and fall months
responding to disasters. Each volunteer that deploys to work on a disaster
relief operation works late hours for days on end fulfilling their small part
of the bigger Red Cross mission to alleviate human suffering in the face of
emergencies. Sometimes those jobs are tedious; sometimes they are frustrating;
sometimes they don’t go as smoothly as we’d like them to. Sometimes, those jobs
are emotionally overwhelming, seeing from the ground level just how enormous
the needs are. For me, seeing the flooded and storm damaged homes in person,
talking to the mother whose young family has suddenly become homeless, holding
the hand of the elderly lady as tears fall down her cheeks, or handing the
bottle of cold water to the child whose eyes glitter with gratitude made very
real and personal the disaster I’d only experienced through segments and
soundbites on the evening news.

Big numbers serve a purpose. They illustrate to donors where
their money is being spent. They quantify the work being done on a large scale.
But they miss individuality of each person served, each person who received one
of those 3.8 million meals or who slept in a cot during one of those 1 million
overnight shelter stays. Disaster relief is complex, much more so than I’d ever
realized before, and sometimes the response feels like more of an art than a
science. Focusing on statistics with big numbers makes it easy to ignore the
complexity or forget each individual who receives one of our services. But what
I realized during my short time in Ft Myers is that what matters most to the
people we serve is that someone showed up during their darkest hour and
provided that meal or that shelter to sleep in or a hand to hold, and that is
something that the Red Cross can’t measure in numbers.

*All stats referenced are actual Red Cross service delivery stats as of 9/24/17.

about the blogger

lori arnold mcfarlane

is a blogger and author living in Arkansas.

When she's not writing, working or herding her three children and asshole cat, Lori enjoys quietly reading (any book will do), drinking hot tea (milk, no sugar), exercising (sometimes) and when the notion hits, sewing, baking or crafting.

All opinions on this blog are entirely her own, and can and will probably one day be used against her in the court of law. Or in an attack ad, should she ever run for public office. They do not reflect the opinions of her employer.